Dream within a dream
For the past few weeks, I've been having extremely vivid, bizarre dreams. Some are particularly disturbing, but most of them are just downright weird, even for me.
One thing's for sure: I watch entirely too much Bravo channel. Last weekend, I dreamed that I was in a class taught by Sweet P from Project Runway. We needed to smuggle her out of the building, so I put her in a towel and wore the towel on my head, and then we escaped on a motorcycle. Now, that's not to say I wouldn't hang out with Sweet P, because she rocks, but I seriously doubt I could wear an adult woman on my head, much less convincingly conceal her with a bath towel. And there is no way in hell I would drive or even ride on a motorcycle.
Earlier this week, I had a dream that I was (I'm gagging just writing this) making out with Ben from Make Me a Supermodel. Dammit, there are models on there I'd jump on in a second, and my dreams betray me by delivering the decidedly un-sexy prison guard instead. What's next? Sweet monkey love with Miguel from Top Chef? That thought makes me want to stay awake forever. Somebody make me some espresso and fetch some sturdy toothpicks to hold my eyes open!
Last night, I had my Top Chef dream. I'm thanking my lucky charms that no sex was involved. Let's face it - I'd rather fuck the food than most of the chefs who appear on that show. No, in my dream, I was a contestant on the show (because I'm such a wizard in the kitchen; I can punch those microwave buttons like nobody's damned business) in some future season, where they are obviously desperate for participants, or they want the judges to die from my disgusting cuisine. Hey, I didn't set up the conditions - my subconscious took care of that.
In any case, there I was in the house with all the other chefs. It was not the greatest house in the world, kind of a borderline-ramshackle country house (although it was all city out the front door...I'm not going to pretend that any of this makes sense). Unlike the real show, we each had our own room, so I was alone when I went to bed the first night. As soon as I'd settled into bed, I looked down to see the covers being pulled off of me, and then felt my legs being lifted up in the air. Oh, yeah; they put us in a haunted house. I'm not sure what my visiting ghost hoped to achieve with that odd display of power, but it didn't do a thing to scare me off. The next morning, I came downstairs with the other contestants and asked if anyone else had experienced any spirit antics (several had). No one seemed particularly put off by it. Yeah, we culinary experts are a tough-ass bunch. We carry spatulas and we're not afraid to swing those fuckers.
Another chef was making cherry pancakes, so I volunteered to do the dishes. The ghost thing was pretty far out; my volunteering to do the dishes took the dream right into the realm of the ridiculous. After breakfast, I was hanging around the back of the kitchen, kind of assessing the amount of work I had in front of me in the sink. Suddenly, one of the guys started stomping something and making disgusted noises. He then announced that we had cockroaches.
Okay, I could survive the ghostie leg lifts without flinching. But as soon as the word "cockroaches" left the guy's mouth, I freaked the fuck OUT. The ever-present cameramen were digging that, because you know those reality shows will just have to work to manufacture drama if it doesn't really happen. I was bringing the drama on a silver platter, with a heapin' helpin' of hysteria. I was acting like such a...such a girl. However, I was not alone in my demand that we be moved into a different house. There was much bitching that the last batch of chefs were put up in near-palatial digs in Chicago and we'd been hustled into this roach-ridden dump.
Some suits showed up to assess the situation, and while they made it clear that they thought we were being huge babies by demanding to move, they agreed to find us a better house. As we prepped for the relocation, it was like I was packing my whole house instead of just a suitcase full of clothing. I was in a hurry to get the hell out of there, so I was just picking and choosing what would come with me. Every time I thought I was finished, I'd find more notebooks, and anyone who knows me knows my notebooks must come with me.
It was about at that point that Friday woke me up with a cold nose to my cheek and a bite on my chin. The imagery in my dream was so vivid that it took me a little while to shake it off (and to get Friday to stop nibbling on my face). I got up, drank some water, and watched a little TV (will I never learn?) before I crawled back under the covers. Surely I'd dreamed myself out for the night, right?
Nuh unh.
If writing a blog about blogging is meta-blogging, is having a dream about your dream considered meta-dreaming? Because that's what I did. I started dreaming that I was recounting my odd Top Chef dream to Squirl. I just couldn't get away from that stupid buggy farmhouse, even in a subsequent dream. I was quite glad when Friday woke me up from that dream, and decided it was a bad idea to go back to bed.
So now you've had a quick peek into my warped subconscious. Sorry to grab you by the hand, all trusting and shit, and then take you into the tarpit of my mind. Helluva thing to do to my friends.
Just be glad I didn't recount my recent nightmare about zits gone wild. You'd never eat mayonnaise again.
One thing's for sure: I watch entirely too much Bravo channel. Last weekend, I dreamed that I was in a class taught by Sweet P from Project Runway. We needed to smuggle her out of the building, so I put her in a towel and wore the towel on my head, and then we escaped on a motorcycle. Now, that's not to say I wouldn't hang out with Sweet P, because she rocks, but I seriously doubt I could wear an adult woman on my head, much less convincingly conceal her with a bath towel. And there is no way in hell I would drive or even ride on a motorcycle.
Earlier this week, I had a dream that I was (I'm gagging just writing this) making out with Ben from Make Me a Supermodel. Dammit, there are models on there I'd jump on in a second, and my dreams betray me by delivering the decidedly un-sexy prison guard instead. What's next? Sweet monkey love with Miguel from Top Chef? That thought makes me want to stay awake forever. Somebody make me some espresso and fetch some sturdy toothpicks to hold my eyes open!
Last night, I had my Top Chef dream. I'm thanking my lucky charms that no sex was involved. Let's face it - I'd rather fuck the food than most of the chefs who appear on that show. No, in my dream, I was a contestant on the show (because I'm such a wizard in the kitchen; I can punch those microwave buttons like nobody's damned business) in some future season, where they are obviously desperate for participants, or they want the judges to die from my disgusting cuisine. Hey, I didn't set up the conditions - my subconscious took care of that.
In any case, there I was in the house with all the other chefs. It was not the greatest house in the world, kind of a borderline-ramshackle country house (although it was all city out the front door...I'm not going to pretend that any of this makes sense). Unlike the real show, we each had our own room, so I was alone when I went to bed the first night. As soon as I'd settled into bed, I looked down to see the covers being pulled off of me, and then felt my legs being lifted up in the air. Oh, yeah; they put us in a haunted house. I'm not sure what my visiting ghost hoped to achieve with that odd display of power, but it didn't do a thing to scare me off. The next morning, I came downstairs with the other contestants and asked if anyone else had experienced any spirit antics (several had). No one seemed particularly put off by it. Yeah, we culinary experts are a tough-ass bunch. We carry spatulas and we're not afraid to swing those fuckers.
Another chef was making cherry pancakes, so I volunteered to do the dishes. The ghost thing was pretty far out; my volunteering to do the dishes took the dream right into the realm of the ridiculous. After breakfast, I was hanging around the back of the kitchen, kind of assessing the amount of work I had in front of me in the sink. Suddenly, one of the guys started stomping something and making disgusted noises. He then announced that we had cockroaches.
Okay, I could survive the ghostie leg lifts without flinching. But as soon as the word "cockroaches" left the guy's mouth, I freaked the fuck OUT. The ever-present cameramen were digging that, because you know those reality shows will just have to work to manufacture drama if it doesn't really happen. I was bringing the drama on a silver platter, with a heapin' helpin' of hysteria. I was acting like such a...such a girl. However, I was not alone in my demand that we be moved into a different house. There was much bitching that the last batch of chefs were put up in near-palatial digs in Chicago and we'd been hustled into this roach-ridden dump.
Some suits showed up to assess the situation, and while they made it clear that they thought we were being huge babies by demanding to move, they agreed to find us a better house. As we prepped for the relocation, it was like I was packing my whole house instead of just a suitcase full of clothing. I was in a hurry to get the hell out of there, so I was just picking and choosing what would come with me. Every time I thought I was finished, I'd find more notebooks, and anyone who knows me knows my notebooks must come with me.
It was about at that point that Friday woke me up with a cold nose to my cheek and a bite on my chin. The imagery in my dream was so vivid that it took me a little while to shake it off (and to get Friday to stop nibbling on my face). I got up, drank some water, and watched a little TV (will I never learn?) before I crawled back under the covers. Surely I'd dreamed myself out for the night, right?
Nuh unh.
If writing a blog about blogging is meta-blogging, is having a dream about your dream considered meta-dreaming? Because that's what I did. I started dreaming that I was recounting my odd Top Chef dream to Squirl. I just couldn't get away from that stupid buggy farmhouse, even in a subsequent dream. I was quite glad when Friday woke me up from that dream, and decided it was a bad idea to go back to bed.
So now you've had a quick peek into my warped subconscious. Sorry to grab you by the hand, all trusting and shit, and then take you into the tarpit of my mind. Helluva thing to do to my friends.
Just be glad I didn't recount my recent nightmare about zits gone wild. You'd never eat mayonnaise again.
Katy Barzedor proclaimed this to be so at 11:47 PM
5 of you felt the overwhelming need to say somethin':
Join with me watching the History Channel and you can put Winston Churchill, Julius Caesar, George Washington, Eric the Red, John Kennedy, Napoleon Bonaparte, and Adolph Hitler into your dreams.
Hmm. Hubs thinks MY dreams are goofy...
Oh that's right! The zit dream. It's not surprising that you were dreaming about telling me about your dream. That's something that does happen. Wait, maybe that does make it surprising. :-)
NyQuil has been giving me some fucked up dreams that include killing satanic talking animals and using taxidermy practices to keep them from returning from the dead to take over the world, living in the old trailer from way back in the day, and having my mother turn ito BILL from KB1&2 to give me some sage advice on how to keep the fuckers dead.
Yeah, I'm with you on this.
So, yeah.
Benadryl is my friend. No dreams, just sleep. Sure it only lasts 4 hours, but still... 4 hours of sleep without dreams like yours is 4 hours of heaven.
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